Not Guilty !
by Halcris
Summary: Someone is trying very hard to discredit Doyle. Why ? Things get out of hand before they are resolved.


**Not Guilty.!**

It had just turned 2 o'clock when Bodie strolled into Headquarters. He was feeling satisfied with his morning's work, which had involved checking out the names and addresses on the list he had collected as he had left the evening before. He wasn't particularly looking forward to the next part, which was to find a convenient desk at which to sit down and write up the report on his findings.

On his way in, he'd had a quick look to see if his team-mate, Doyle's, car was in. It wasn't. Funny he thought, his list was shorter than mine. Then he remembered. Fair's fair, he thought, Ray's targets were on the other side of the river, and a lot further out.

As he sauntered past the notice-board in the hallway, an article in large print caught his eye, and he stopped to read it.

As he took in what it was saying, a look of fury came over his face. Quickly he snatched it from the board, and crumpled it up angrily.

Then, having second thoughts, he smoothed it out again, and re-read it. Cowley needs to see this, he decided, and took the stairs up to the boss's office at a run.

He knocked on the door, and when called in, marched angrily up to the desk, and plonked the offending paper down in front of Cowley.

"Look at that !", he said furiously. "I found it on the notice-board."

Cowley gave it his full attention. In big bold letters, it read,

WAS YOUR ASSESSMENT LESS FAVOURABLE THAN YOU HAD HOPED ?

PERHAPS SOMEONE WAS GRUDGING, FOR FEAR A NEWCOMER MIGHT STEAL HIS LIMELIGHT. MAYBE YOU SHOULD HAVE SLIPPED HIM A FIVER ?

Cowley's anger matched Bodie's.

"Who wrote this ?," he demanded.

"I wish I knew," replied Bodie. "It's so unfair. Everyone knows Doyle did most of the assessments this year, when he had that injured leg, and couldn't get about easily.

"I always check every one of those assessments," said Cowley, "and add my own comments. Not once have I ever had to question Doyle's judgement, - he's always scrupulously honest. And the second bit is downright malicious, and libellous, too."

"What are we going to do about it ?," asked Bodie, looking to his boss for a lead.

Cowley's expression showed he was thinking hard.

"Has Doyle seen it ?," he asked at last.

"No," answered Bodie. "It wasn't there last night, and he's not in yet."

"When he does get in," ordered Cowley. "Bring him up here, and we'll discuss it, - see if he's any idea who is responsible."

Half-an-hour later, Doyle came into Cowley's office, followed by Bodie, who had been watching out for him.

"Sorry I'm a bit late," he said. "Two of my list were write-offs." He pointed to the names on his bit of paper. "That one's dead, - a motor-cycle accident last week.

And Larkin has gone to live with his sister in Liverpool, - he's no loss, - should we warn them ? Then as I was in the area, I tried Willie Rampton again, but he wasn't there."

"Who's Willie Rampton ?," asked Bodie.

"Do you remember that drugs gang that were setting up near Dorking,?" said Doyle.

Bodie remembered them well. They'd nearly lost Doyle then.

"Well," continued Doyle, "After they'd all been sent down, Fred had a suggestion to make. He reckoned that Simpson, the one he was watching, who led us to the others, was co-opted because of his London connections. So he set out to try to identify some of his known associates, and Rampton's name came up. But I've tried the address twice, and he's hardly ever there, according to neighbours."

"I see," said Bodie.

Doyle looked from his team-mate to his boss. Their serious expressions were somewhat more severe than this bit of information warranted.

"Is something wrong ?," he asked astutely.

"Yes," said Cowley, and handed him the accusatory notice.

Doyle read it quickly.

"That's spiteful," he said at last. "And not true !," he added forcefully.

"We know that," said Bodie.

"Have you any idea who might have written it ?," asked Cowley.

Doyle shook his head.

"Have you trodden on anyone's toes recently ?," demanded Bodie.

"Not that I know of," replied Doyle. "Where did you get this from ?"

"Pinned to the notice-board downstairs," answered Cowley.

"Nasty !," commented Doyle.

"Well," ordered Cowley, "say nothing to anyone about it, but keep your eyes and ears open. I'll get a few covert enquiries made, and we'll see what happens."

The pair left together to write up their reports on their assignments.

Nothing more happened. Nobody mentioned the notice, and although a surreptitious eye was kept on the notice-board, nothing more was posted there.

Then one day a letter appeared on Cowley's desk. It had been slipped into the mail, but it hadn't been posted, - it bore no stamp.!

It was marked 'personal', and Cowley opened it very cautiously. It contained only two sentences in large print.

WHICH OF YOUR MEN IS TAKING BRIBES ?

TRY CHECKING THE LOCKERS.

Cowley stared at it in puzzlement. The print was exactly the same as that nasty accusation about Doyle. Was this aimed at him again, or was someone else the target this time ?

Well, he decided, there's only one way to find out. He left his office and went down to Joe's little cubby-hole. I suppose Joe could have been officially called a caretaker, but he was more than that. He did a myriad of useful small tasks, and knew everything that went on in the building, for he'd been there for years and years.

"Joe," said Cowley briskly. "I want the master-key for the lockers."

Asking no questions, Joe lifted it down from a hook on a board on the wall, and handed it to him.

"Who has been using it recently ?," Cowley asked casually.

"It's been a good week," replied Joe. "I don't think anyone's been careless, lost their own key, and had to borrow it."

Cowley nodded. Joe would know if it had happened.

He went to the locker-room, took the key from the outside, entered, and re-locked it from the inside. If anyone came, they'd just have to wait.

He thought again about the decision he had made. If the accusation had been made publicly, there would have to have been a full enquiry, with all the adverse publicity that that would have engendered. By revealing it to no-one, and coming down to look for himself, he had two objectives, one, to avoid the publicity which would damage his organization, and two, to try to thwart the plans of whoever was doing this.

He was certain in his own mind that this was aimed at Doyle again, and equally certain that it was untrue ! He flattered himself that he was a good judge of men. Doyle, tough as he was, was an idealist, and would never be corrupt. If Cowley found stuff in Doyle's locker, and he was sure he would, then he knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that it was a 'plant'.

To be absolutely sure, he had a cursory look through all the other lockers in the room. He found only what he expected.

Change of clothing, sport's gear, and personal items. He wasn't shocked by the 'girlie' magazines he found in some, including Bodie's, for these men were young and active, at their physical peak due to their intensive training.

At last there was only Doyle's locker left to look at. He opened it. As he expected, it was tidy, with some spare clothes, a sports bag with a squash racket, a towel and a track suit.

Then, on the top shelf, he found just what he'd been meant to find, a large brown envelope. He looked at the contents, and his expression became grim. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to manufacture such damning evidence. Why ?

Tucking the envelope inside his jacket, out of sight, he re-locked the locker, opened the room door, restoring the key to the outside, and returned the master-key to Joe, adjuring him not to mention his visit to anyone.

He returned to the office to examine his find more closely.

Someone had put in a lot of effort.

It consisted of three wads of banknotes, £50 in each, wrapped in a band of paper, on which was written a man's name, and the name of a London police station.

Cowley pondered for a while. Then he wrote the three names down on a slip of paper, and put it to one side. Next, he made phone calls to the three named police stations, and asked some questions. The answers in each case were very similar.

He put the three bundles of money back in the envelope, and slid it out of sight in a desk drawer. He called the duty-room, and left orders that he wanted to see Doyle and Bodie as soon as they came in. They were on a stake-out but were due to be relieved shortly.

A little while later, a knock on the door indicated their arrival. They entered, sat down as requested and waited expectantly.

Cowley handed Doyle the slip of paper.

"Do you know these names?," he asked.

"I think so," replied Doyle and indicated each one.

"That one's a cat-burglar, - nasty piece of work, - he targets old ladies living alone. This one has a nifty way with cars, - he can get into almost anything, and the last one's a rather mean little drug-pusher."

He handed the paper back, and looked enquiringly at his boss.

"They've all been arrested," said Cowley.

"Good, about time too," replied Doyle.

"This last week, - as a result of anonymous tip-offs," continued Cowley.

"That's odd," commented Doyle.

"Co-incidence ?," queried Bodie.

"I don't think so," said Cowley. "Then there's this, -and this !"

He laid on the desk in front of them, the accusatory letter, and the brown envelope. He was pleased to see, as he had expected, that Doyle gave no sign of recognition of either item.

He slid out the contents of the envelope, and the two men stared at the money.

"Where did that come from ?," asked Doyle.

Bodie was one step ahead.

"From Ray's locker, I bet !," he exclaimed, and Cowley nodded.

Doyle was visibly taken aback.

"I hope you don't think…" he began.

"We don't," said Cowley decisively, "but someone's going to an awful lot of trouble to discredit you. Have you no idea why ?"

Doyle shook his head. "None at all," he said unhappily.

Bodie was thoughtful.

"How did they get in there ?," he asked. "I know I'm sometimes careless, and don't lock up, but Ray never forgets."

"Oh, come," protested Doyle. "Everyone knows where the master-key is."

"Yes, everyone who's entitled to know," agreed Bodie. "But Joe keeps an eye on it. No outsiders would know about it, and no unauthorised person gets past the doorman anyway."

Cowley caught on to what he was saying.

"So it's an inside job," he agreed. "Like the first bit on the notice-board."

"That's not a nice thought," said Doyle slowly.

"Yes, you are obviously upsetting someone," said Cowley. "What have you been working on recently ?."

"Nothing you don't know about," responded Doyle.

"Well," said Cowley, "once again we'll keep this completely to ourselves, and see if there are any further developments. But if either of you think of something that might be a clue, tell me at once."

The pair left to get on with their paperwork. Both wore very serious expressions. This was becoming nasty, and could well get worse, but as yet they had no idea of the reason behind it. And the thought that an insider was involved was disturbing.

For a while things went on normally. There were no more letters or notices.

Then one evening something odd happened. Doyle had a date with a new girl-friend. She was the sister of one of Bodie's lady-loves. They had all four been out a couple of times on very pleasant double-dates, but tonight Doyle was on his own with Stella.

He had taken her to his favourite Italian restaurant, a small select place run by a chap called Mario. Doyle had helped Mario out of a couple of scrapes with a protection racket, and now counted him as a friend.

Usually when he went there, Mario greeted him effusively, and made quite a fuss over seeing he was well looked after.

Tonight was different. When they went in, Doyle saw Mario standing by the bar, and waved out to him. But instead of rushing over to greet him as he usually did, Mario didn't respond, and turned away. He had a word with a waiter, and then disappeared into his office.

Doyle was surprised. Still, perhaps Mario had something urgent to do, and would come over later. He concentrated on being pleasant to his guest, and they enjoyed a good meal together, and pleasing conversation.

Mario did not re-appear. When the waiter brought coffee, Doyle spoke to him.

"Is Mario all right ?," he asked.

"He's very busy," replied the man shortly, and left hurriedly.

Odd, thought Doyle, wondering if his friend was in trouble again. The thought irked him, so when he went to pay the bill, he asked if he could have a word with Mario. The cashier called the head-waiter. He listened to the request, frowned, then said. "Mr Mario is not here, he has gone home early."

Doyle had the feeling that this was a lie. It just wasn't like Mario. But as he could see Stella standing by the door, he let it go, and hurried after her.

But the thought niggled at him, disturbing his sleep. So when the next day's job finished mid-afternoon, and he was in the right vicinity, he decided to call in to see if his friend was in need of help again

As he pushed open the door and entered, a waiter, who was laying tables, tried to stop him, saying "We are not open yet."

But he brushed past him and went towards Mario, who once again, turned away, and retreated into his office. Doyle followed him.

Mario turned, braced himself against the desk, and with a grim look on his face, spoke out.

"I'm sorry, Doyle," he said, "but you are no longer welcome here."

Doyle was astounded.! He looked questioningly at the man he thought was his friend.

"Why not ?," he demanded. "What have I done ?."

Mario turned away. He looked very unhappy.

"I always knew you were pretty tough, Ray," he said, "but I didn't think you would do that."

"Do what ?," exclaimed Doyle, totally mystified.

"Beating up an old lady," replied Mario.

"What ?," exclaimed Doyle incredulously. "Who ?."

"Maggie Izzard," said Mario in an accusing tone."

"Never heard of her," declared Doyle. "Who is she ?"

"A very decent old lady," replied Mario, "who does a lot of good work with the homeless shelters, and the soup-kitchens. Yesterday sometime, she was badly beaten up, and the word is, it was you."

"Not guilty !," said Doyle firmly. "I swear it, Mario. It wasn't me !."

Mario gave him a puzzled look.

"She was given that name," he said. "Why would anyone do that ?"

"I'm being set up, Mario !," declared Doyle.

"Look," said Doyle, "there's a quick way to settle this. Is she in hospital ? Go there with me, and she will tell you it wasn't me."

"I don't think she's allowed visitors yet," said Mario doubtfully.

"My I.D. will get us in," said Doyle, "if I say I'm on official business."

It only took them 10 minutes to get to the hospital, and, as he had said, Doyle's I.D. gained them admittance.

As they looked through the window at the little old lady propped up in the bed, Doyle was shocked at the state of her;

He turned to Mario, aghast.

"Mario," he exclaimed, "Surely you didn't think I did that ?"

"I didn't want to," said Mario, looking rather ashamed.

They entered and approached the bed. Mrs. Izzard knew Mario, and greeted him with a rather painful lop-sided smile, but she showed no sign of recognising his companion.

"Who is your friend, Mario ?," she asked weakly.

"This is Ray Doyle," said Mario.

The old lady was suddenly alert.

"But this isn't the man who hit me !," she exclaimed. "He's nothing like him."

Mario was now wearing a relaxed grin. He hadn't wanted to believe ill of his friend.

"He gave you my name ?," asked Doyle.

"Yes, he did," she replied, "and I believed him because I'd heard that you had made enquiries about my son, trying to find him."

Doyle looked puzzled.

"I don't understand," he said. "I don't know of anyone called Izzard."

"Maggie's been married twice," explained Mario. "She's Willie Rampton's mother."

"I didn't know that," protested Doyle.

But as he took it in he realised it explained a lot.

"I despair of my son," said Maggie sadly. "He was a good boy once, but he began to go wrong after his father died. I very rarely see him now, and I'm afraid I can't help you find him."

"Is that why you thought I attacked you ?," said Doyle. "You thought I was trying to find Willie."

Maggie nodded. "But it wasn't you," she repeated firmly. "He was tall and thick-set and had ginger hair."

"I don't recognise the description," said Doyle thoughtfully. "But we'll get him for you, Mrs. Izzard. I promise you that."

On the way back to the restaurant, Mario was restored to his friendly cheerful self.

"I'll spread the word, Ray," he said, "That it wasn't you – it was a set-up. Do you know why ?"

"I'm getting a good idea," replied his friend, "I'll let you know when we've investigated further."

They parted, back on friendly terms again.

It was early evening now, and beginning to get dark, so Doyle decided that he would go home to write his report on his morning's work, and would call base to say he would bring it in the next morning. He was also planning to report to Cowley and Bodie about this afternoon's revelations.

So his mind was on other things as he parked his car outside his flat and locked it securely.

Unprepared, he was suddenly felled by a blow from behind, and knew nothing more as he was bundled into the back of a big car, which sped away into the night.

He came back to his senses suddenly, as he received a bucketful of cold water, full in the face. He struggled to his feet, and looked about him. He was in what appeared to be a deserted warehouse room, bare walls and a dusty stone floor.

He soon realised, too, that he had been stripped of his jacket and his gun, both of which he could see lying in a corner.

But all this he took in with a swift glance, for his immediate focus was on the half-a-dozen men facing him, all wearing balaclavas or ski-masks, and heavily armed.

One had a baseball bat, another a heavy bicycle chain, while the rest mainly sported knuckle-dusters, or carried hefty sticks. And they were advancing upon him menacingly !

"What's this all about ?," he demanded, hoping to delay them.

"It's about beating up old ladies,!" shouted one of them.

"Oh, Maggie Izzard," said Doyle.

As soon as he said it, he realised his mistake. The fact that he knew the victim's name confirmed his guilt to those listening, and they muttered angrily.

In a last vain attempt, he yelled at them. "It wasn't me ! I didn't do it !."

But his protests fell on deaf ears, and they charged in relentlessly.

He swung up his left arm to ward off a vicious swipe from the baseball bat. As it caught his wrist, he felt something give, and a sharp pain shot up his arm.

Not a good start, he thought to himself. He had already realised that this was a fight he wasn't going to win, but he intended to give as good an account of himself as he could.

He had recognised two of his assailants as the Mortinelli twins, Ralph and Benjy, and knew he could expect no quarter from them.

For a while his speed and agility helped, but the odds were too great. Although he managed to dodge some blows, others were coming thick and fast, and his strength was failing.

Eventually he was felled to the ground, and vicious kicks were added to the assault, which continued even after their victim had lost consciousness, and was no longer feeling the pain they were inflicting.

Suddenly there was an interruption. A loud voice bellowed

"Fermare ! E 'un errore !. (Stop ! It's a mistake !")

The attackers halted and turned to look.

Framed in the doorway was the imposing figure of Pietro Mortinelli, patriarch and feared head of the family. He was a big man, swarthy of face, with dark hair showing just the first signs of grey, and a large moustache.

He looked extremely angry, and the gang, especially his sons, quailed before him.

Beside him, and totally dwarfed by him, was the figure of Mario, looking anxiously towards the huddled form behind them.

."You fools !," Mortinelli yelled "This was a set-up, and you fell for it. Mario took Doyle to see Maggie, and she knew it wasn't him who attacked her."

The assailants were taken aback by this news. They knew Mortinelli too well to question it.

"What do we do now ?" asked the twins, almost in the same breath.

"You two, go now to your grandmother's in Milano. The rest of you, go visit relatives, or take a holiday. I don't want to see any of you till I send word. I only hope you haven't killed him !"

Mario, meanwhile, had hurried to bend over the fallen victim. As the gang disappeared rapidly, he lifted his head and told Mortinelli.

"He's alive, but he's hurt bad, Pietro."

The big man thought for a moment.

"Is there any way you can get him help, without leaving a name ?," he asked.

"Oh, yes," said Mario. "I think I know a way I can do that."

The two men left, and all was still and quiet in the deserted storeroom.

Bodie was cross. He had arranged a blind date for himself and Ray, with two girls who worked in the same department as Marcia, who was at present away on holiday.

He had arrived promptly at the arranged rendezvous, looking forward to an interesting evening, but Doyle hadn't turned up. They had waited for a little while, but he didn't show.

After a whispered conversation together, the girls had declined to go out with him alone, and had cleared off.

He felt decidedly disgruntled and annoyed with Doyle. If he was backing out, he could have let me know, he thought to himself.

Angrily, he dialled his friend's home number. There was no reply ! He tried the radio-phone and the car-phone, and got no joy from either. What was his mate playing at ? Where was he ?

Exasperatedly, he called base. The girl on the switch-board answered, and he recognised the voice.

"Oh, hullo Molly," he said. "Do you know where Doyle is ?"

"No, I don't," replied Molly. "Mr. Cowley asked me that too. Doyle hasn't called in all day."

Bodie thanked her and rang off. This response had started alarm bells ringing. It wasn't like Doyle to be so completely out of reach. Had something happened to him ?

As he wasn't far away, he took a detour to his mate's flat. Doyle's car was there, neatly parked and locked, but there were no lights on in the flat, and no response when he rang the door-bell.

He returned to his car, pondering what to do next. As he climbed in, his own car-phone rang. He answered it quickly, hoping it was Ray. It wasn't. It was his boss, Cowley, who came straight to the point.

"I've just been alerted that Doyle appears to be missing," he said. "Have you found him ?"

"No, he's not at home," replied Bodie "but his car's here, so that's odd."

"Well, see if you can track him down," ordered Cowley, "and report to me when you find him."

Though neither man had mentioned it, it was in both their minds, that someone had been trying various ways to discredit Doyle. What if they'd gone a step further ?

Bodie tried several of Doyle's friends that he knew, and called a couple of places that he sometimes went to, but got nowhere.

It was now well into the evening, and he was starting to get really worried.

His car-phone rang again. It was Molly, on the switch-board.

"Bodie," she said "I've had a message, via the police, from someone wishing to speak to you. Wouldn't give a name but said it was urgent."

"Put it through," ordered Bodie, and waited. There was a pause. Then a muffled voice spoke. It only said a few words.

"Doyle, 42 Grimshaw Road," and then the phone went dead.

"Did you get that, Molly ?," asked Bodie. "Tell Cowley I'm going to investigate, - I'll report later."

He checked the location in his street directory. It was down in a dock area. He found his way there as fast as he could, and discovered it was a street of mainly deserted and derelict warehouses. Not exactly a salubrious area.!

He fished in the dashboard compartment for the powerful torch stored there, then checked his gun meticulously. He got out, locked his car carefully, and moved towards the building. There didn't seem to be anyone about.

Entry was easy, as the door was hanging off its hinges. Careful search of the ground floor revealed nothing, so he made for the stairs. The light of his torch showed blurred footprints on the dusty steps. They looked fairly recent, which was promising.

The first room was completely empty, but as he shone the beam round the next one, he made some discoveries.

He spotted first the tan leather jacket lying in the corner. As he moved towards it, he swung the beam round. It revealed a huddled form over by the far wall.

He rushed towards it. Carefully he rolled the figure over, and gasped in alarm. He'd found his friend, but what a state he was in !

He thumbed his radio, and Cowley responded promptly.

"I've found him," Bodie reported, "but he's hardly on top of his form," he added grimly.

"Explain !," demanded Cowley brusquely.

"Sir, he's been severely beaten up," replied Bodie. "He's unconscious, and looks in a bad way,"

Cowley was silent for a moment, then responded.

"Get him the help he needs," he ordered, "then report to me. We need to find out what's behind all this."

Bodie wasted no time in calling the priority ambulance from St Richards, and very soon Doyle was delivered into the anxious care of Dr. Fenton, a lively young doctor, who had become their mutual friend. He whisked him away, promising to be back soon, and left Bodie fidgeting in the waiting-room for nearly an hour.

At last he returned, entering the waiting-room with a grim expression, to meet Bodie's enquiring look.

"You'll get whoever did this, won't you, Bodie ?," he said angrily.

"Of course," replied Bodie firmly, "as soon as he tells us who it was."

"That won't be tonight," said Fenton. "I've sedated him quite heavily, to make sure his body gets the rest it needs to recover, - he'll sleep all night."

How is he ?,"demanded Bodie, knowing he'd have to tell Cowley.

"Multiple small injuries," answered the doctor. "Nothing too serious. There might be a broken bone in his wrist – I'll get that x-rayed.

But he's tough and fit. A bit of rest and he'll recover quite quickly. I'll give him a thorough check-up tomorrow morning, so I don't want you pestering him at least till the afternoon."

Knowing how competent and thorough Dr. Fenton was, Bodie left, feeling happier, and reported to Cowley.

They discussed the situation, but as they didn't yet know about Maggie Izzard, and what the connection was, they didn't get very far. They knew they would have to wait for Doyle to give them what he knew, and decided to abide by Dr. Fenton's protective instructions.

So it was early afternoon on the next day, when Bodie sailed jauntily into the small single room allocated to Doyle. He found his friend sitting up, supported by several pillows. He looked decidedly battered and bruised, and sported a plaster cast on his left wrist, but he was alert and reasonably cheerful.

Bodie barely had time to say "Hi, mate, how are you ?", before there was an interruption.

There was a tap at the door, and a large basket of flowers entered. That was an apt description, for the display was so big that the bearer was hidden behind it, and was being steered by a nurse.

Between them they managed to stand the basket on the bed-table. The porter handed Doyle an envelope that had come with it and departed.

The nurse looked round for somewhere more suitable to stand the gift, and started removing things from the top of a small cupboard in the corner. With Bodie's help she transferred the basket there, where it lit up the whole room with its magnificence. There was a variety of flowers, but mostly stately spikes of gladioli, in glorious glowing colours.

The nurse turned to Doyle, and teased, saying

"That cost a bomb, I know ! Have you got a rich girl-friend, Mr. Doyle ?

Doyle, who had been reading the accompanying letter, smiled.

"Would you believe it's from the biggest un-caught villain in London ?," he said.

Not sure if he was joking, she gathered up a couple of fallen petals, and left.

Bodie looked enquiringly at Doyle.

"Explain," he demanded.

Doyle showed him the letter. It started in Italian, so he translated it for him. It began,

_Spiacente ! Non I miei ordini._

(Sorry ! not my orders.)

It went on to explain that Ralph and Benjy had acted on their own initiative, and without his knowledge, though he was aware that they were angry at what they'd heard.

When Mario had come to him to explain about the set-up, he had taken action immediately, but had been too late to stop what had happened.

He promised that if it was in his power, he would try to make atonement. It ended with repeated apologies,

_Molte scuse !,_ and an elaborate flowing signature.

_Pietro Mortinelli._

Bodie stared in silence for a moment.

"So it was Mortinelli's boys that attacked you," he said , "But why ?"

Doyle explained about the set-up involving Maggie Izzard, and the surprise revelation that she was Willie Rampton's mother. Bodie took it all in thoughtfully.

"So you see," said Doyle, "It all started when I began to make enquiries about Rampton, first the stuff at base and now this."

"I'll have a lot to report to the boss," said Bodie. "Somebody evidently doesn't welcome your interest, so we'll be taking that a lot further, I can see."

"But, how are you, mate?," he asked with a grin. "I've seen you looking prettier, mind !"

"Oh, I'll survive," said Doyle cheerfully. "But Simon won't discharge me yet, so I'm stuck here a bit longer."

"Get the rest while you've got the chance," Bodie advised. "Meanwhile, we'll get after the Mortinelli boys."

"I don't think you'll have much luck there," said Doyle, "Mortinelli's far too crafty for that."

He was right.! In spite of extensive searches and enquiries, the gang were not to be found. They all appeared to have disappeared without trace.

C.I 5 knew Mortinelli very well. He had more than a finger in every dubious criminal activity all over London, but he was clever enough to cover his tracks very well. C.I.5 knew he was a villain, but couldn't prove it yet, and were playing a waiting game with him.

Left on his own, Doyle was feeling restless and fidgety. Although some of his injuries were painful when he moved, he felt all right in himself, and was anxious to be released.

He admired the flowers for a while, committing an image of them to his memory. Maybe he'd try a painting like that one day.

When Dr. Fenton visited his patient that evening, he found him bored and restless, so he listened to his requests with a little more sympathy.

Doyle asked first that the flowers be taken somewhere where more people could enjoy them.

"That's good of you, Ray," said Fenton. "I'll get the Sister to arrange it, - maybe one of the women's wards."

Next, Doyle pleaded to be allowed to go home to his flat. He promised to take things easy, and eventually Dr, Fenton relented

"All right," he said at last, "but you're not signed back on duty yet, mind !"

But he found him his jacket and some other clothes, and called a taxi for him.

Cowley had just finished his 'elevenses' coffee, when there was a tap on his door .He responded, and two figures entered.

Doyle still looked the worse for wear. He was limping slightly, and still sported the plaster cast on his left wrist, a dressing above one eye, and several darkening bruises on his face, but he seemed alert.

"What are you doing here, Doyle ?," Cowley demanded. "You're not back on the duty roster yet."

"I know," admitted Doyle, "but I persuaded Dr, Fenton to let me go home last night. I didn't get up very early, but when I did, I found this on my door-mat."

He handed Cowley a sheet of paper. Written in a very florid hand, it was a list of names, plus some addresses.

"Where did this come from?," demanded Cowley.

"From Pietro Mortinelli, I imagine," chipped in Bodie, who had followed his mate upstairs. He had been surprised to see him, and was concerned for him.

He had reported all he had learned from Doyle to Cowley yesterday afternoon, and they had talked about it fully. It was beginning to make sense of all that had happened.

Doyle continued eagerly.

"A couple of those names are on the list Fred gave me of Simpson's contacts," he said. "We could be onto a big drugs network here."  
Cowley motioned the pair to sit down. Bodie pushed a chair forward for his mate, who sank onto it gratefully.

Cowley studied the list thoughtfully. At last he made a comment,

"Why is Mortinelli going out of his way to help us ?," He queried. "It's surely not just remorse over you, Doyle. That's hardly his style."

"No," agreed Doyle, "But things have changed a bit. We know he's a villain, and he knows we know, but can't prove it. But now we've got a slight hold over him."

"How, ?," asked Bodie, not understanding.

"His two boys, and the rest of the gang," explained Doyle. "He knows that if they re-appear, we can send them down for years for assault or GBH."

"I'd like to do that," said Bodie eagerly.

"And there's another factor," continued Doyle, "If he helps us track down this gang, he rids himself of potential rivals, doesn't he ?"

"Yes, I see," said Bodie. "I knew there had to be something in it for him. He never moves without a good reason."

Cowley had been thinking through all the information he now had.

"Right," he said briskly. "I think it's time we started looking up some of these characters.

But not you, Doyle," he added. "You're still off-duty."

"But I can still make phone-calls, and check through records, can't I ?," he asked. "I can manage that."

"As long as you don't go doing too much," said Cowley, "or I'll have Dr. Fenton after me."

"Does he have to know ?," pleaded Doyle. Cowley gave him a reproving look.

As the pair stood up to go, Bodie put his oar in.

"Don't worry, sir," he said. "I'll see that he behaves."

"Oh, you and whose army ?," retorted Doyle cheekily.

Cowley hid a smile as he watched them leave. This pair never ceased to amaze him. They were very different, yet their rapport was so good, and they co-operated so well.

Cowley set to work to put in hand extensive enquiries into all the names he now had. As these names led to others, he soon realised that they were onto a wide-spread network of pushers and dealers. He decided to call for the assistance of the police Drugs Squad, and soon put them in the picture. The subsequent work was very successful, culminating in a big coup.

On a selected date, a very early morning raid was mounted, using both C.I.5 men and Drugs Squad officers.

Dozens of venues were visited, and over 30 'undesirables' were taken off the streets. A huge haul of drugs was also taken, ranging from fairly common 'whizz',( amphetamines), and many tablets of Ecstasy, to large quantities of heroin, both 'brown sugar', cut ready for the cheaper market, and also pure uncut heroin, worth huge sums of money.

Doyle, almost fully recovered, but not back on full duty because of his wrist injury, was allowed to go with one group, and finally met up with Willie Rampton. He was not impressed !

Rampton was a big handsome-looking man, but nasty with it, and resisted arrest quite viciously.

He came face to face with Doyle as he was dragged away, and glared at him angrily.

"I'll get you," he shouted threateningly. "Interfering swine."

Doyle ignored him, thinking to himself what a pity it was that such a nice old lady's son had turned out so badly.

The de-briefing the following day was a cheerful affair, with the men of both forces feeling a degree of satisfaction at a job well done.

As Doyle and Bodie left the room together, wondering what would be next on their agenda, Bodie was thoughtful.

"We've still got one loose end to tie up," he said.

"Oh, what's that ?," queried Doyle.

"We haven't found the 'insider' responsible for that notice and the bribery accusation," replied Bodie.

"Do you know, I'd almost forgotten about that," said Doyle. "But you're right.! I bet Rampton could enlighten us."

"He's hardly likely to be so obliging, is he ?" retorted Bodie.

A few days later, they were to find the answer in a very unusual way.

They were in the canteen, collecting a quick bite of lunch before going out on their next assignment. As he picked up his tray, Bodie felt a tickle in the back of his throat. Not wanting to cough all over his food, he turned his head away, - and caught the merest glimpse of something that startled him !

The cough never came, and the moment was past, but it left his mind in a whirl. Had he really seen what he thought he had ?

As he followed his team-mate to a table in the corner, Bodie was still pondering. If he made a fuss and he was wrong, he was going to feel such a fool. On the other hand, if he hadn't imagined it, there could be dire consequences. He decided that the only way was to play it covertly.

They sat down and unloaded their trays. As discretely as he could, Bodie reached out and tapped Doyle's hand to get his attention. Doyle looked at him inquiringly, silenced by the grim look on his friend's face.

Bodie spoke quietly.

"Ray," he said, "Will you do exactly as I tell you, without question, - explanations later ?"

Doyle looked closely at his mate. Bodie could be a joker, but he wasn't joking now. He was deadly serious about something. He gave a slight nod.

"In a minute," continued Bodie. "I'm going out. Then I'll call you. Answer as if it were Cowley. Say something like "Yes, sir, I'll be right up" Then blow on your coffee, as if it's too hot to drink, Lift the cup and bring it with you. On no account drink any of it ! Got it ?"

Again Doyle gave the slightest of nods.

The pair played the scene exactly as Bodie had directed. As soon as he got outside the door, Doyle was ready to demand explanations. Bodie almost snatched the cup from his hand.

"I think I saw someone slip something in your coffee," he said. "I want it checked !."

The pair went straight to Cowley, where Bodie explained his actions.

"If I'm right," he said, "We've got our 'insider' !"

Using all the weight of his authority, Cowley got things moving quickly, and the coffee sent for analysis. Even so, it seemed a long wait before he got the call he was waiting for. As he listened his expression became grimmer. He thanked them, put the phone down, and looked at the anxious faces before him.

"You were right, Bodie," he said. "If Doyle had drunk any of that he'd have been dead in five minutes !"

Doyle gasped. What a close call that had been ! Once again, he owed his life to his friend. He looked gratefully towards him, and Bodie responded with a relieved grin.

As Bodie could identify the particular kitchen-worker responsible, Cowley sent a couple of other agents to pick her up discretely, and bring her to a small unoccupied office. A middle-aged woman, good-looking in a brassy kind of way, she answered to the name of Fiona Dutton.

Cowley went in first to question her. She knew very well that the game was up, and stared at him defiantly.

"Well, is he dead ?" she demanded.

"No, I'm not," said Doyle, entering with Bodie close behind him.

"Pity !," she snarled. Doyle was momentarily taken aback by her malice.

"Why ?," he asked.

"Because you were after my man," she replied

"I don't know anyone called Dutton," said Doyle.

"We don't all get to marry our men," she said. "Mine has a stubborn Catholic wife who won't divorce him. But I've been with Willie Rampton for over five years now."

That made things a lot clearer.

She admitted to planting the notice, and the letter with the money. She was taken away to be passed over to the police, who would deal with her according to Cowley's instructions.

Bodie made the final comment on the affair,

"She'll probably end up with a sentence as long as Willie's," he said. "Serves her right, spiteful cow !"

There was one more final event to the story.

Emerging from a stake-out one day, Doyle and Bodie were met by a couple of men in a big dark car. They brought a politely worded request from Pietro Mortinelli, asking if they would come to have a word with him. As the men were behaving most correctly, with no hint of menace, the pair agreed.

The black car led theirs to Mortinelli's sumptuous home, where he received them courteously, offering refreshment.

The big man came straight to the point.

"I did try, Doyle, to make amends for what happened to you," he said, "so I was wondering if perhaps it would be all right for my boys to come home now. I miss them," He tried very hard to put on the doting father look, which secretly amused Doyle, as it was so out of character.

But Doyle had been expecting this request. He had discussed it with Cowley, and had his instructions.

"Well," he said at last, having pretended to ponder about it. "I think we might allow that, provided they are very careful about what they get up to."

"Oh, I'll make sure of that," said Mortinelli. I bet you will, thought Doyle.

Just tell them 'their card is marked '," said Doyle, and the big man nodded.

Their car was escorted down the long drive, and passed through the electronic security-gates.

As they sped away, Doyle turned to Bodie, who was driving.

"I feel a bit like Daniel," he said.

"Daniel who ?," asked Bodie.

"You know, in the Bible," said Doyle. "Escaping unharmed from the lion's den !."

Both were smiling as they made their way back to Headquarters, to see what awaited them next.


End file.
